


Full of Machinery I Am

by Bluandorange, zetsubonna



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Established Relationship, M/M, Multiple Personalities, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier/Skinny!Steve, period appropriate pop culture references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:00:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2697230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluandorange/pseuds/Bluandorange, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubonna/pseuds/zetsubonna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While waiting for back-up from the Avengers, Steve tangles with a wizard who's spell knocks his body and mind back to pre-serum. Thankfully, his favorite sniping stalker is there to whisk him off the battlefield to safety. </p><p>Featuring Blu as Steve and Z as Bucky and the WS, two roommates who timeshare a body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full of Machinery I Am

**Author's Note:**

> This is an RP copied straight from gmail. There's line breaks for when characters/writers switch. Shit is not edited. Have fun!

Steve really hates magic users. At least guys with guns are easily disarmed. And usually aren't flying. Or able to teleport. 

Or able to make dopplegangers, shit, that's the second time he's fallen for that since the fight started! He'll admit it, he's in over his head. He needs back-up, and he's called for it, and they're on their way, which is good, but he still has to keep this wizard busy until they get here. He'd really have to work for it were he on his own, but thankfully his shadow is here, today, to pick up some of Steve's considerable slack.

This would be a lot easier if he had his shield. He's never, ever leaving home without it  _again_. 

Right now, the wizard has him pinned behind some make-shift cover. Steve can hear him casting but there's no more energy blasts and he can't get any good sight-lines from here. He makes a dive-roll toward a more desirable cover, but he's yanked back mid-roll and lifted into the air. It's like it's solidified around him, he cant fight it--there's nothing  _to_ fight. And then everything gets very hot and very bright and--

Steve hits the ground on his hands and knees and he can't remember what pushed him. His bad ear's ringing so sharply its giving him a headache. What was he doing? Did he deserve this latest assault? He doubts it. Over the ringing he can hear laughter and yeah, no, he's sure now he's disoriented from a fight that this latest fuck thinks he's winning. Must think he's real hot shit tossin' around a 90 pound asthmatic. Steve starts push up, trying to stagger to his feet. Like Steve Rogers goes down that easy. 

 

\---*---

 

The Soldier doesn't have a name for himself, doesn't have anything particular to call himself, although the nagging voice in his head that used to get him in trouble when he was with the handlers has a name now, and he gets annoyed with it every time it talks. He listens to it, though, because other than listening to it and taking out Hydra bases, he has nothing better to do.

So  _Bucky_  told him to find the Man from the bridge, the Man who got him out, to find  _Steve_ , and Soldier has no other handler any more than the voice in the back of his head, so he did. Lucky thing, too, because the Man's friends, the other people in stupid, eye catching outfits who think they're comic book heroes or whatever the fuck, aren't around, and so the Man's been fighting a magic user solo for the better part of ten minutes, and ten minutes of solid fighting is a lot of property damage in such a densely featured urban area.

Soldier doesn't like urban combat. The woods are better, the jungle, the desert. He's killed a lot of people in a lot of places and urban warfare is, as  _Bucky_ so eloquently puts it,  _a royal pain in the ass_. Still, he knows what he's doing, so he's had a good sniper position the whole fight, picking off doppelgangers left and right, aim, shoot, aim, shoot, it's less unpleasant to be the cover on the six than the frontal assault. It feels natural.  _Bucky_ says cover on the six was all they ever used to be, but Soldier is trying to ignore Bucky again.

Except, when the wizard launches an attack that disappears the Man and replaces him with a smaller, weaker, more vulnerable version,  _Bucky_ starts screaming so loud Soldier can't tune him out. He abandons his gear- nobody's going to come up here and get it anyway- and starts jumping down the buildings, crashing through windows to slow his descent until he can hit the ground running, aimed right at  _Steve Steve Steve Steve shit baby no_. 

Ugh,  _Bucky_.

 

\---*---

 

The laughing has turned into muffled gloating--Steve doesn't need to make out the words to know its gloating, it's got that smug lilt to it that never ceases to annoy the shit out of him--and since this fucker likes to hear himself talk (and because Steve is currently too rattled to remember who he is or why they're trading fists), Steve lets him talk. He acts like the fuck isn't worth his time and instead straightens out his jacket, dusts off his knees and makes sure his collar and tie are both straight. He's smoothing down his sleeves when he finally feels like he can look the guys way without getting too damn dizzy, and--

...he wasn't expecting this. He must've been hit harder than he thought because the guy--there is a guy (who does look rather annoyed that he isn't paying attention to him)--he's just, he's--

The guy is  _floating_. The guy's floating at least three feet off the ground and  _glowing_. 

Steve's confusion and distress must please him because the floating man's scowl turns into a pleased, prideful grin. He opens his arms wide and says, "never saw anything like this back in the 40s, 'ey Captain?" or at least that's what it sounds like. Steve must be hearing him wrong because that doesn't make any damn sense. "Not so tough now without your precious--" and then the guy cuts himself off to look over his shoulder. 

Steve doesn't wait to see what's gone and distracted him, he picks a direction and he  _runs_. 

 

\---*---

 

Soldier doesn't have  _ain't got the fuckin' time for this shit ain't got the time nor the energy nor the fuckin' patience goddamn it_ and he keeps running. He doesn't stop running- vaults over a flipped car the Man had used to replace his shield and waits for the magic user's eyes to be following  _Steve_ before he smacks through his useless bullshit with an impact grenade.

Normally, Soldier tries not to kill people who attack the Man directly, because the Man doesn't like it, and  _Bucky_ complains so fucking much. Killing people isn't necessarily a bad thing in Soldier's mind: it's his form and function, first of all, but second of all, it keeps them from repeat offending. How much trouble would be saved if these costumed fuckers just buried people instead of putting them in prisons they can break out of?

Burned and buried, like every Hydra cell he can get his hands on. Good fucking riddance.

_Steve's_  tearing around a corner at his top speed when Soldier scoops him up without slowing down, careful to put him on the right side so the impact of arm to guts isn't jarring. He tosses  _Steve_  over his shoulder just as the magic user's spells collapse in the radius of the impact grenade's blast, all his other work falling out of the air with a crash.

 

\---*---

 

Steve takes the first corner he gets to and--

Is suddenly jerked off his feet, twisted around and slung over someone's shoulder. Any complaint he might have--and he can think of  _several_ \--is deafened by a blast from back the way he came. Steve covers his head with his arms out of instinct, shoulder and forearm pressed to each ear to preserve what little hearing he still has. His stomach is bouncing against the shoulder of whoever this is, now--not the floating guy, since this one is running on his own two feet--and he can tell by the rhythm and wind that they're going fast. They're booking it. 

Steve isn't sure, but he thinks he might've just been saved. 'Saved', considering he was already running away himself. He lifts his arms enough to look at the person what has him by the waist and legs. 

 

\---*---

 

_Bucky_ is pissed. Soldier doesn't fucking care. They can argue with each other once they've gotten  _Steve_ far enough away from the site of the magical fallout that none of his technicolor untrained goon squad will be showing up to take  _Steve_  from them, or yell at Soldier for taking care of their problem with grenades, bullets and  _a complete lack of technical subtlety._

He's wearing an outfit cobbled together from gear relieved from the bodies of dead Hydra agents and stolen from military surplus shops in the suburbs. Black, mostly, with some gray urban camouflage, combat boots, a ponytail holder in the colors of the American flag that  _Bucky_ chose, and Soldier didn't care enough about it to argue. He has a vehicle, offroad friendly, he stole from another Hydra base he blew up a couple of weeks ago, and that's where they're going. He'll get  _Steve_ in the vehicle and-

He's not sure what, after that, honestly.

"Can you believe this shit?"  _Bucky_ says, and Soldier is too busy running to make a face. Their voice is raspy, but loud enough that  _Bucky_ is confident Steve will hear it.

"Can't leave you alone for a minute." Soldier is talking to  _Bucky_ , but it sounds like  _Bucky_ is talking to  _Steve_. Still applies.

 

\---*---

 

Steve sees the dark clothes, the boots, the--the ponytail, which really throws him off because he's pretty damn sure he recognizes that voice. But it doesn't make sense--

"Put--" he wedges his elbow back against the guy's head, "--me  _down_."

 

\---*---

 

"God _damn_  it."

Soldier admits to himself that he's not sure which one of them is talking, and that's the first step, ain't it, to admitting he's lost what mind he had? Whatever.

He skids into an alley and slides  _Steve_  down from his shoulder, dropping to a crouch to get his hands on the weapons closer to his ankles.  _Bucky_ wants to look at  _Steve,_  wants to put eyes on his face and drink in relief and familiarity, but Soldier won't cede control. He watches the mouth of the alley instead, checking for pursuit before glancing past  _Steve_ and evaluating their immediate surroundings. It's six more blocks to the garage where he stashed his vehicle. They are exposed, vulnerable, and still too close to the blast site for his liking.

"Stevie,"  _Bucky_ says, testy and still rasping. "I get that you ain't happy bein' hauled around, but now really ain't the time to fight about it."

 

\---*---

 

Steve immediately puts distance between him and whoever--he ain't saying its Bucky until he  _knows_  its Bucky--and winds up backing himself into a corner formed by the alley's wall and a dumpster. He watches the man, takes in the jawline, the  _scruff_ , the eyes, the  _messy hair_ \--

\--and of course once he starts talking again, there's nothing for it, this homely looking  _bum_  is Bucky Barnes. 

"It the time to tell me what the hell is going on?" he asks. "Halloween come early this year? Why do you look like dogshit?" Yeah, no, he  _really_  ain't happy about being hauled around. And he's a little scared because nothing really's making sense. Halloween really is his best bet cuz that guy back there? Had some supernatural  _bullshit_  going on with him. Or else Steve's falling for a damn good trick.

 

\---*---

 

" _Dogshit_. Yeah, that's apt," Soldier and Bucky have been contemplating a haircut for weeks, but they don't like scissors much and Soldier finds his hair  _comforting_.  _Bucky_  can't argue with him when he says something is  _comforting_ , Soldier is all that keeps  _Bucky_  from screaming. Just-  _screaming like he'll never stop_.

"All right, baby boy, I'll try to keep it short."  _Baby boy, really_ , and Soldier swears to fuck  _Bucky_ needs to just get over himself and admit out loud his feelings about  _Steve_  have nothing to do with amnesia or anything else. "Shit has gone awry. Really fucking  _awry_. A lot of Jules Verne, Tolkien type bullshit is real, and I ain't had the best time of it. Yes, I need a shave and a haircut. That ain't news, and honestly, that's probably the least of your problems. I am  _aiming_ to get you to my car, so we can get somewhere safer to talk before Wizard McBullshit back there pulls his pieces together, or somebody who don't know me like you do tries to tell me that violence to the part of blowing people to Hell ain't the answer. Now. Do you have time for me to get arrested?"

 

\---*---

 

Oh, Steve is pissed. This is not the time to 'baby boy' him and there is  _so much_  about that spiel he does not like, most importantly that Bucky's gone bad and would  _need_  arresting. 

He's trying to focus on that and not the 'blowing people up' part. Because there had been an explosion.

And that really was a wizard. He hadn't imagined the flying part, then. 

Steve sucks in a deep breath,  _focuses_ on the fact that apparently Bucky's gone and made their lives  _harder_  for some damn reason, lets the breath out in a rush and levels him with a glare. "Where's your damn car?"

Oh and he will be asking  _how you got a car at all_.

 

\---*---

 

"Parkin' deck, six blocks northwest. It's faster if I carry you, I'm about-" he paused, calculated. "Anyway, I'm  _fast_. I'm down to one pistol and don't  _look_ at me like that, I swear by the steeple of Saint Margaret's,  _ain't none of this my fault_. Just- shit has gone awry, that's all. Now."

He reluctantly let his knife go and moved his lower calf handgun up to his left hip as he stood. "Over my shoulder, on my back, or you wanna take the gun and go sideways like we got hitched? Nobody will know you can't shoot straight if we don't tell 'em, your reputation ain't what you think."

 

\---*---

 

Steve has stopped looking angry and is now looking  _worried_. His jaw jutted forward as he stares at the gun, teeth closed around the inside of his cheeks. 

It'd be one thing if Bucky wasn't giving him a choice, but he is. He's talking fast and urgent and Steve knows he wouldn't be playing with him, not when  _guns_  are involved, but he's giving Steve a  _choice_  and only Bucky ever gives Steve a choice and only Bucky will ever be allowed to see Steve scared. 

But he can't ask. Bucky already said he can't ask. Steve takes a deep breath and swallows down the rising panic. "Gimme the gun. I just gotta hold it? Right?" He motions for it, the mutters, "I swear to god, Buck, you got us into this mess--" You'll get them out, right?

 

\---*---

 

_Bucky_ is an idiot and loves the idea of scooping  _Steve_  up like he's carrying him over a threshold, and Soldier wants to roll his eyes at these two, but he hasn't got time. He gives  _Steve_ the gun, which is one of his smaller ones and shouldn't break his wrist if he has to fire it.

"Actually,  _you_ got us into this mess, I was covering your ass when you got hit, that's why you're back to normal and I ain't."

He scoops him up, refuses to let  _Bucky_ drive enough to smile. "We're gonna be fine."  _Probably. For a given value of fine_. "Watch my left arm, don't get pinched."

It recalibrates almost before he's done talking, the plating shifting under his jacket, and then he's running again, sticking closer to cover this time, eyes scanning for potential threats, jaw set.

 

\---*---

 

Bucky says they'll be fine but he ain't smiling, so Steve doesn't believe him. He hugs his neck with one arm and puts the gun in the hand of the other. He gasps when something  _moves_  under the sleeve of Bucky's left arm, something mechanic, whirring and clinking and he clings to Bucky harder until it  _stops_. 

"'m dreaming--" he says, staring at the now-still sleeve. "--gotta be, this is a dream."

 

\---*---

 

"Don't I fuckin' wish,"  _Bucky_  says, and they're thudding down the street at a speed that would make an Olympic runner feel pretty good about himself. "Only thing I want anymore is to be curled up sleepin' in the old place with all of this a nightmare. All I've been wanting for  _years,_ baby boy. You don't even know how much."

He jumps a low brick wall and  _Steve_  barely bounces.

"God, don't remember the last time I talked."

 

\---*---

 

"Since you're talkin'," and he sure wishes his voice was as even as Bucky's, "why not tell me how much time I've lost." Clearly he's lost some. He hasn't the first clue what's going on. The world passes by them in a blur and yeah, there's no way Steve could be counted to shoot anybody, he's getting sick just trying to look past Bucky's shoulder. He ends up tucking his head down, nose by Bucky's throat. He can't--god, he feels so lost and  _useless._

 

\---*---

 

"Mm, really, about six years,"  _Bucky_ says, and dips around a corner. "But you and me, Stevie, we pulled some Rip Van Winkle shit in the middle. So it comes out more like seventy."

He lets that sit for just a minute while he navigates a cordoned off street.

"Straight Jules Verne shit, I toldja. This kind of wizard thing? Ain't your first time bumping into it, just the first time you've gotten hit. I've seen it before, couldn't tell you when. Don't remember. Most of my shit is- mm. Shell shock and amnesia. Lot of it."

 

\---*---

 

Steve closes his eyes. "Yer making some of this up." Please, God, tell him you are. 

 

\---*---

 

"Steve,"  _Bucky_ says. "Look."

He ducks into the nest of parking decks. They can make it the rest of the way in near dark, and he's so glad of that.

"I ain't got time to bullshit you. I ain't got the inclination, neither. But you know what I do know? Spite of all the other shit I forgot, you know what I remember?"

There's his Jeep. He gets to it before he puts  _Steve_ down on the passenger side, crouches at his feet.

"You. I remember you. Not shit else, but you, you I can't forget. So don't fuckin' worry about it, okay? We'll figure the rest of this shit out."

 

\---*---

 

...No. No. No! No. Nope. No, we aren't doing this. Steve may be dazed and confused but he doesn't feel  _enough_  like he's dreaming to indulge in  _whatever the living fuck this is_. He is not acknowledging that this could be a scene torn straight from some of his most self-indulgent romantic fantasies,  _he is not_. 

"Get the hell up, Barnes," he says, voice still not as level as he wished it'd be. He wishes he weren't as flushed neither, but he is. Its dark in here, though, so maybe Buck won't notice. He gets himself righted in the seat and jerks a thumb back to the drivers side. "Weren't you just saying we ain't got time for bullshit?" 

 

\---*---

 

_Bucky_ wants to sulk, but Soldier raises an eyebrow when he finally meets Steve's eyes, displaying the keys he just fished out from under the car in his open hand.

"Ass. Let a fella be fond of you."

He circles the car and slides into the driver's seat, starting the engine and lighting up the dash with a  _radio_ and a whole host of other shit. There's something that looks like a small television right above it, and it automatically shows a map, which  _Bucky_  ignores. Soldier knows where he's going. Kind of. Maybe.

"Okay. Now that we're moving in such a way that I don't think your amazing technicolor goon squad is going to expect, you can ask me whatever you want."

 

\---*---

 

Steve doesn't acknowledge Bucky's initial reply past immediately breaking eye contact. His face is burning even more. 

Then the front of the dash  _lights up_  with its own little screen and most of Steve's relationship related angst gets pushed right back to dead last on his list of priorities. He covers his eyes with his hands, rubs index and pointer finger over his lashes a few times, then drops them and looks back to the dashboard. Nothing's changed. 

"...Buck, I dunno where to  _start_."

 

\---*---

 

"Then I'll tell you what I remember,"  _Bucky_ says, putting his arm around Steve's seat so he can back out of the space and start driving. He chucks  _three dollars_ in coins in the parking lot's toll exit without a complaint or even a blink.

"We went to the Stark Expo at the World's Fair in '43, night before I shipped out. Double date, not that I remember either of the dames. I turned my back on you for five minutes and you went into the Enlistment Booth, because you're an asshole. My last night in Brooklyn and my best guy ditches me. A'right. I cussed you, you cussed back, hugged you and the next I saw you, you were rescuing me from Nazi scientists who'd taken the whole 107th prisoner. Some of that, I remember, some of it I read. Libraries are- different, now. Last time you saw me, before last year, I was falling off a train. Lost my arm in the fall, got a prosthetic. Damn good one, but ugly as shit and strong enough to rip doors off cars. I ain't exactly been sleeping the whole seventy years. You were, mostly. Dumb shit in both directions. Your technicolor goon squad, and you when you ain't been wizard-blasted, looks like those Bob Kane comics you used to like: vigilantes in bright colors, bringing in the bad guys for arrest instead of blowing them to Hell, mostly. I ain't on that team. I don't want to be."

 

\---*---

 

Steve listens, eyes keeping mostly to himself and Bucky, not straying much at all to the outside world which--look, he's just had enough nasty surprises for one day. He's had his fill of science-fiction bullshit and he's only been conscious a good twenty minutes. Bucky's little story is distressing enough. 

"You're avoidin' my team," he says, because that much he's wrapped his head around. "But you ain't sick'a me."  Considering his team wasn't anywhere around when he was having a stare down with a wizard or when he needed outta a blast radius, (and considering it's  _Bucky_ ) he's pretty damn sure that's a good thing. "Ain't I lucky."

You were right before, he's an ass, but he does mean it, he is lucky. You're the only thing he's got the only thing going his way, he's lucky. He'd be up an frighteningly technologically advanced shit creek without a magical paddle without you.

 

\---*---

 

"Your team don't  _know_ me,"  _Bucky_ says, rolling his right shoulder- his  _good_  shoulder, he'd probably say. Soldier is so tired. He doesn't like talking. He's watching every bridge, every stoplight, every closed circuit camera. Being in the open like this is not his favorite. "They don't know you, neither, not- like I do. I don't know how long the magic lasts, but this is 'bout the best time for me to check on you, seein' as how you're all I've got."

He sighs. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. The left hand is silver, where his fingers poke out of his glove. Silver, made up of jointed plates. He wants to look at Steve. He wants to look at him so bad it hurts, he missed him, he still misses him and he's right fucking next to him, it don't make any sense and Soldier shoves Bucky's feelings back down his throat.

"I left a ton of gear back there, hopefully they won't fuck with it. I've got a safehouse upstate, unless you want to stay in the city. I can hover around the edges but I can't take you to your place in Manhattan. I ain't welcome there."

 

\---*---

 

"Take me wherever," he says. "Not like I'll know this new place'a mine from your 'safe' house." 

He tries not to look at the fingers for too long--he can't decide if they're part of the glove or actually the honest to god hand beneath it. 

"...so I sleep seventy years while you don't--I wake up, I have this team--y'know where I am, did I know where you were?" 

 

\---*---

 

"My turn to be a shit," Bucky says, and Soldier's distracted, so the corner of his mouth perks up, just a little. "You're looking for me. Can't see me if I'm behind you."

He pauses at a red light, looks at Steve. Sighs.

"Yeah, baby," he says, softer still. "That's my hand."

 

\---*---

 

He glances between Bucky's to the hand and back. "I wanna see it, later," he says, eyes down on his own hands as he speaks. "The whole arm." The second he's done, he meets Bucky's eyes again and his own gaze is stone, leaving no room of argument. Ain't steel, so there's no threat of anger or retaliation, just stubborn, unyielding truth that this is what's gonna happen, and Bucky's either gonna listen or he's gonna be banging up against a wall.

After a moment he looks back down again. "Anyway...whatcha doin' behind me you don't want me seeing?"

 

\---*---

 

"Killing people, sometimes," Bucky says, and he says it so matter-of-fact, like it was gardening. "Bad people I ain't got time to wait and see arrested. Nazis, a lot of them, but all of them people who'd kill me first if they saw me coming."

He's heading them north. Checking every camera, every light.

"Trying to remember, mostly. What I know about me, a lot of it, comes from libraries, like I said. You n'me, we're in all the history books. Some of it checks out. Lot of it is bullshit. I call you, sometimes. Don't say anything. You know it's me. You talk until I hang up."

 

\---*---

 

That's a lot to take in. 

Bucky killing people is--well, Steve thinks, they're Nazis. They're at war--or they were--and that's what you do, you kill the men on the other side. They never discussed that part of it much. Always made Bucky go so quiet. They didn't talk about why he didn't enlist, but Steve always thought it was cuz Bucky didn't  _wanna_  be out there taking people's lives, didn't matter what for. It never seemed to sit right with him. 

Now its been seventy years and he's talking about it like it's just a fact of life, nothing exciting, just the happens to be what he does. Killing people. 

Steve doesn't want to talk about it. There's already so much he doesn't want to talk about. 

He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't end up saying anything. He rubs his palm against his forehead--feels clammy, all this stress ain't good for him--then drags his fingers through his bangs. 

 

\---*---

 

"Sometimes," Bucky says, twisting his grip on the wheel just a little. "Sometimes I wanna just stop. Just give up all this shit, come home. Let you sort it out. But I wouldn't be-"

He stops there. It ain't the time to go into it, when Steve's like this, when he can't argue back. This Steve, if he heard Bucky call himself his fella, would still argue, wouldn't understand how it was Bucky's turn now, to be the one with all the burdens, his turn to pretend not to help, to only let him tumble enough to need catching.

Bucky snorts. Steve's always gonna be the one who takes forever to admit the girders that hold up the walls exist. Even big, he ain't bright on that score. It's foolish to think it'll be different, just because. He don't know much, but he knows Steve. Leastaways this Steve.

The grin that pulls his lips is out of practice. The Soldier in him itches. Bucky's face turns a little, aims it at Steve while he's got a red light.

"Ain't no sense in borrowing trouble," he says. "Especially trouble you're fresh off putting down."

Most of the time, the Soldier doesn't want to be Bucky anymore. Bucky doesn't, either, most of the time, Bucky Barnes wishes he were dead. His hair's too long like a man left in the grave, beard too, eyes haunted like a vacant house. He's a dead man walking, but Steve, his Steve, just being near him reminds him how it used to feel to be alive.

Light turns. Bucky's look caresses Steve's tired face, his stubborn jaw. His hand squeezes Steve's thigh. He turns back toward the road and starts pulling forward.

"Sometimes down is the only thing to put trouble." 

 

\---*---

 

Steve looks at his hand, a warm familiar weight he can't help but be grateful for. Bucky's real, even if none of this should be. Bucky's here and so is Steve. 

"...you sayin' I wouldn't be willing to sort it out?" he asks. "That the kind of man I am now? I wouldn't wanna help you?" That sounds like bullshit, Buck. You're the only kind of trouble he's willing to wade into up to his neck. Just because he hasn't had to before doesn't mean he won't. You've always been there for him, always waded against the tide to save his sorry ass, there's no way in hell he wouldn't do the same for you. If that's changed...well, Steve ain't sure what he'd make of that. He just knows that ain't the kind of man he wants to be. He can't really imagine being that man, but he can't imagine being important enough to land in history books or capable of battling wizards, either. Everything's topsy-turvy upside-down and backwards, so he's half expecting Buck to tell him 'yes', 'yes, Steve, I can't count on you to help me'.

And he's not sure what he'll have to say to that.

 

\---*---

 

Bucky's breath catches, and he huffs a rough, rasping laugh.

"Christ," he says. Ain't that always the way?

"Christ, no, you little shit. You'd turn yourself inside out if you knew how bad I'm twisting in the wind on this. You'd tear down the world if you thought I'd hold still long enough for you to bail me out of my own shit mess. It ain't that I don't trust you, punk, you know me better than that. You oughtta."

His voice is rasping worse than ever, he can't remember last time he talked so much. He'll force it out and then he'll clam right up, he damn near promises the Soldier- his other self. The one that holds him together when he's fracturing like this.

"I ain't any better than you ever were about asking for help. That ain't the fella you wanted, I tell me, ain't one you could want. I know you'd give me anything I asked for, baby boy. That's why I can't ask. Your Bucky- the fella I'm supposed to be- he wouldn't need to."

 

\---*---

 

"Yer such a  _stupid_ sack of shit. Yer not doin' me any  _favors_ , y've gotta be worryin' me half to  _death_. I can't believe I'm lettin' ya." No, really, he doesn't know who he's more mad at; Bucky for being a useless fucking martyr or himself for letting Buck get away with this shit show. "Heaven forbid you need _my_  help for once in your goddamn life." 

 

\---*---

 

Turnabout's fair play, Bucky wants to tell him. Sauce for the goose works just fine on the gander. Steve spent the first twenty years of their friendship scaring him half to death, one foot in the grave and the other in the mud. Year or two of Buck winding up his now healthy heart's about even, ain't it?

He's tired. Steve's mad as a hornet.

"Yeah, well," he manages. "Fella does plenty stupid shit when he's dizzy on a body." 

 

\---*---

 

"Don't you even think about trying to ditch me now, Barnes." Yeah, that's right, he's mad enough and serious enough that 'dizzy' crap isn't gonna trip him up. You wanna talk about being dizzy? They'll talk. 

"I need you, and you need me, so we're stickin' together."

 

\---*---

 

Need Steve. Boy, does he ever. He's so fucking tired.

"Too exhausted to even work on a plan, doll," he murmurs, aiming them at the highway. "Talkin' takes it out of me now. I'm not used to stringing words together."

Nor thoughts, nor anything more than orders, bullets, mission parameters.

"Keep me awake, Stevie. Keep me here and now. Cuss me, if that's all that's on your mind."

 

\---*---

 

"Well, since I have your permission," Steve says, then he pauses because he's still plenty rattled. "I don't know where to start, Buck, this has all the makings of a bad dream. I know you said it weren't one before, but--Mary, mother of God. I'm not even sure I can be mad at you--you're saying I'm some history making superhero, and yet I'm letting you get away with all this. Are you just that good at duckin' me or have I got it in my head that yer due your space? You ain't well, Buck. Either I'm foolin' myself thinking you can sort yerself out or yer foolin' yerself thinking the same. 

"You know how fast you'd be on  _my_  ass if I was trying to pull this kinda 'can't see me if I'm behind ya' horseshit? No, Buck, you  _don't_  haveta ask for my help, but running away? Sounds to me like you don't  _want_  it. And don't get me started on the phone calls.  _Literal_  silent calls for help, Buck? Seriously?"

 

\---*---

 

"Ain't calling for help," Bucky says stubbornly. "Checking on you. Checking on me, making sure I ain't lost my mind. Ain't- misremembering."

Because he could be. God knows he could be. He's been rewritten so many times there's barely any paper left.

 

\---*---

 

"Sounds like you're needin' help and I'm givin' it. Point stands." He sits back in the seat and crosses his arms. "Must think you're skittish as an alley cat. Guess you are. An' y'must have me real desperate. Gotta wonder if the me now would even be cussin' ya, if you haven't got him so worked up, he'd take your scraps without question. Yeah, y'sure know how to show a fella a good time."

 

\---*---

 

He almost smiles again. Steve's so ornery and mean. He likes it, fuck, it feels so much better to have him pissed off than miserable.

"Real good time wouldn't be illegal, if I felt up to it," Bucky smart-asses. "Assuming the plumbing still works." 

 

\---*---

 

"...You serious?" He doesn't feel up for it, but for him being queer weren't always about the sex. It was about havin' one more deficiency in the eyes of his country, one more reason he should be considered an undesirable, an invalid. 

They don't just take somethin' like that off the books if something hasn't gone and changed.

 

\---*---

 

"Wouldn't joke about it," Bucky says, glancing at him  from the corner of his eye. "New York repealed the sodomy law in 1980, legalized marriage for queers in 2011, military repealed blue cards in 2013. Church still don't like it, but they never liked anybody fuckin' for fun anyway."

He swabbed his tongue across dry, chapped lips. "Whole Army's integrated, queers, black folks- it's black now, colored's outta fashion- working on women in combat zones now. Kinda interesting. New stuff's easier for me than the shit they erased."

 

\---*---

 

"And who's 'they'?" He almost asks which 'shit', but then he remembers Bucky at his feet, sayin' Steve's all he remembers, all he got to keep, or fought to keep or whatever he was implying back there, so much of what he's said has become this blur of confusion in Steve's mind. Maybe Buck's already told him who went and scrambled his brains--

\--Steve'd kill 'em if he had half the chance. Whoever touched Buck, had so much as a finger in the workings what made him the broken man he is today, Steve would fuckin kill 'em.

 

\---*---

 

"Nice subject change," Bucky says, amused as Hell Steve would let that go by.

Fair enough, he did too. Let the marriage bomb drop, buried it in military policy.

He merges onto an exit ramp. The buildings are gradually shrinking, spacing out. 

"Blurs together. Lots of people had hands in it. Started off the Nazis' special sciences division, guys who were hunting down the fella who supered you up. Shipped me around as they expanded. Russians. Americans, too. Whole goddamn nest of 'em. The guys I'm killing. Hydra, like the monster."

 

\---*---

 

Shuddup, Barnes. He didn't hear a fucking marriage proposal so what's there even to talk about? 

"Guess that makes you Hercules. He didn' do that alone, y'know--killing the Hydra was a two man job. No point taking a sword to their necks if you ain't got someone with you to cauterize the wound.

 

\---*---

 

"Classic literature references at that," Bucky says, checking his mirrors and smirking. "Who says you ain't a romantic?"

The history books barely touched that shit, that Steve and Bucky- especially Bucky- read every book they could get their hands on, from pulp novels to classics to comics. That they made fun of each other with Wells, Verne, Baum and scripture, that Bucky would read out loud when the radio was on the blink and Steve wanted noise while he drew.

"I'm remembering that right, ain't I?" He was squinting again, past the cars ahead. "We were always readers, weren't we, baby?"

 

\---*---

 

"Always. You especially." And he can kinda see why the him that's usually around just gives in and refreshes his memory without complaint. The idea Bucky doesn't know that about himself anymore--well, Steve ain't a very physical person, he's ain't usually the one to initiate any real affection, but this shit just makes him want to hold onto Buck and not let go until he's completely sorted and sure again. "Dunno if you remember it, but my eyes make it hard fer me to read sometimes. You've been reading for the both of us since grade school. I didn't rely on you  _all_  the time, but if we were both keen on goin' through the same story, you'd usually take it."

To this day, Steve can't read certain bible verses or recount the trials of certain characters without hearing Bucky's voice and getting flashes of what he'd been drawing at the time

 

\---*---

 

Bucky nods, just a little, almost absently, tension that had been fleeting gone again.

"I remember your eyes. Your ear. Your sugar. Your back. Your heart. Your lungs. The way you smell fresh outta shower, the way your lip curls back when you're angry, the way you grab my hair when I-"

He shakes his head briefly. "Sorry. Ain't properly sorted enough to filter. Everything comes out lists."

 

\---*---

 

The smile that pulls at his lips is small and somewhere between amused and concerned, with a little second-hand embarrassment thrown in for good measure. 

"Do I wanna know why you remember me so well?" He says it quietly, cuz he's fairly sure he doesn't. 

 

\---*---

 

He shrugs.

The Soldier ain't letting that Irish blush that gets Steve  _only when he's hot and begging for it_ but pops up on Bucky whenever he tries to sincerely express his  _feelings_ , because the time for that shit is past and Bucky Barnes is a goddamn ghost in the Soldier's attic.

He's not channeling a lovesick ninety-five year old with seventy years in the grave gone, thank you very much. He is not, and frankly, this shit is embarrassing.

"Let a fella be fond of you," he allows, because it's a refrain Bucky's been saying since the dawn of time, and 'fond,' unlike  _dizzy_ , has multiple goddamn meanings.

_Dizzy_ , the Soldier has realized sluggishly as he's been scanning traffic ahead, behind and above for pursuit, only ever meant  _in love_ in the 30s, never anything more or less, and Bucky is a goddamned idiot. Taking Steve was a mistake. Trailing the Captain was a mistake. They should have gone on killing Hydra until-

" _Until what_ ," Bucky mutters in irate German. " _Until we caught ourselves in a crossfire? I want to be dead, Soldier, but I don't want to die._ "

The Soldier smacks his own bearded cheek, twice, like a man warding off sleep.

"Sorry," Bucky says. "I'm a fuckin' mess."

 

\---*---

 

"Never said y'couldn'--" Steve starts, but cuts himself off when Buck goes off muttering what sounds like German. To himself. 

Fuckin' mess is right. 

"I hadn't noticed," Steve says. They're definitely due for a change in subject. "How much further we goin'?"

 

\---*---

 

Bucky frowns.

German. That was German. Okay, German is good. He spoke a little German from the neighborhood before the Krauts went fucking crazy and started murdering people for looking at the Old Testament wrong. German is okay. Spanish, too, is benign, a lot of the Spanish speaking boys were good Catholics. Spanish can mean Brooklyn.

Spanish can also mean South America, but Bucky likes to pretend South America didn't happen. Russian. It's when he starts blathering to himself in _Russian_  that he worries.  Or Vietnamese. Vietnamese is never good. Arabic and Portuguese are scary. Not being able to remember how many languages he speaks, that's scary, too.

"I, um," he begins, checking his brain. Soldier's not speaking to him again. That's medium fine. Soldier hasn't ever let Bucky stay in control more than a couple of minutes, Bucky usually doesn't have Steve there to anchor him and Steve heard the German, the German was out loud, that's why the Soldier slapped him and then shut up.

Bucky laughs. He's so tired. "Fuck, baby. Don't worry. Don't worry, German's not necessarily bad. Now, if I start speaking Russian, you gotta touch me, pinch me, squeeze my arm, something, Russian means I'm checkin' out a little bit more than I wanna."

He shakes his head. Drops his left, heavy fist on his thigh a couple of times. Solid.  _Yes, Soldier, I get your fucking point, please don't leave me alone with Stevie going seventy fuckin' miles per hour on the freeway. Last time we were on the freeway with Stevie we ripped out his new boyfriend's steering wheel and threw it into traffic, we ain't that guy no more._

Soldier rolls Bucky's eyes. "Maybe twenty minutes north, tops."

 

\---*---

 

"And if your moods are givin' me whiplash? That not something to worry about, too?" Well, no, he doesn't actually need an answer to that. He doesn't want Bucky worrying about Steve worrying. "Just stay with me, Buck. Come back outta your head and keep me company. Especially if we've got another twen'y minutes on the road t'go. I've got you or I've got this future we're stuck in and I'd rather stick to you."

 

\---*---

 

"I'm here," Bucky says, hoping he's telling the truth. "I'm here with you, baby boy. Stevie. Ain't nowhere else I'd wanna be."

He grins at him. When Steve and Bucky are alone, and Bucky's in a good mood or Bucky's completely terrified, usually because Steve's trying to die on him again, Bucky flirts.

He  _thinks_ he flirts. He  _thinks_ the strained smile is right, it feels natural, familiar. He'd like to look at him, because keeping his eyes on Steve would be very reassuring, ground him in the moment, but he's driving. Looking for more than a second or two is out of the question.

But that's okay. That's fine. They're gonna be fine.

"I remember your birthday, and tellin' you the fireworks were for you so many times you started to shove cake in my mouth before I could say it. I remember you like chocolate more than apple pie but it upsets your stomach. I remember your ma's violet water that she put on when she dolled herself up for Mass. I remember your hair don't ever stay where you put it, not even with pomade nor a trim."

 

\---*---

 

"Speaking of trims, yer certainly in need'a one," Steve says. "And a shave. You forget how to shave?" He shakes his head. "First thing we're doin' we get to this place'a yours, we're sitting you down and taking a razor to that dead animal on your face."

 

\---*---

 

"I wore a mask," he says, wrinkling his nose. "They made me wear a mask. Had a muzzle on it. I don't wear it no more, but the beard makes me feel safe, like a kid's nap blanket."

He purses his lips.

"I'll shave if you'll kiss me after."

 

\---*---

 

"It's about the only way yer gonna get a kiss outta me, so y've got a deal."

This is a lie; he was gonna put up with whisker burn, but you set yourself up and he's gone and said it faster than he could think. 

 

\---*---

 

"You're a damn liar," Bucky said, pleased, brightening. Thinking about the muzzle-  _Steve didn't even know me with the muzzle on my face. Didn't know me, didn't want to know me- but shit, I didn't know me either-_ had shaken him a little.

"All I ever gotta do to get kisses out of you is hit my knees and bat my eyelashes. Punk."

 

\---*---

 

"Yer callin'  _me_  the punk?" Steve raises his eyebrows. "Not a breath after sayin' y'll get what y'want by going to yer knees. And jus' cuz it ain't illegal don't mean I wanna walk around with my face all rubbed raw. I'd sooner trying makin' time with the business end of a broom. Lord knows it'd be cleaner."

 

\---*---

 

Bucky grins fit to split a seam.

"They lie about you, you know," he says. "I'm readin' all these history books, they talk about what a good fella you are. How wholesome you are, with your big blue eyes and yer silky blond hair. I don't know Cain from Abel, but I know that ain't  _my_ Stevie. Not a bit of it.  _My_ baby boy's a sharp-tongued little shithead who cusses me up and down and likes to manhandle me when I  _am_ sweet enough to hit my knees and try to turn his sour-faced scowl into somethin' that almost bears resemblance to a pretty smile."

 

\---*---

 

"You smile enough for the both of us." He doesn't realize that may not be true anymore, it slips out without a second thought, cuz that's what he says when Bucky tries wheedling a smile outta him. "What else they get wrong?" If they're selling him as wholesome, he'd guess they wouldn't be much mention of his record. Or the ways he's made rent.

 

\---*---

 

"All of it," Bucky says. "There's comic books. I'm younger 'n you and wearin' little shorts. Even  _with_ that, nobody so much as whispers queer. Even best exhibit they got on you in the country, they gave me two different birth years and couldn't pick the day I died out of an almanac. Got most of your ailments off your enlistment form, couldn't decide if your mom died when you were twelve or seventeen. Didn't figure out when your dad passed, either. Got art school right, missed clerking, teaching, and half your other jobs, acted like you never made rent on your own, which just fuckin'  _ain't so_. Your arrest record's gone, your solicitation history ain't even a feather in the wind, and basically everything that made you Stevie Rogers has been scrubbed down and polished and sanitized- and they got you down as Protestant, which fuckin' offended me to my bones."

 

\---*---

 

" _Protestant_." Its not even a question, he's just reiterating because that little nugget deserves it. "They must really wanna push the all-American war hero shtick. I must really turn int'a something." 

Cuz something had to have happened. Clearly something that should be impossible, because this is absolutely impossible. Steve has a hard time imagining himself making the paper, let alone be in books and comics and  _exhibits._ Though an argument can be made that its not him at all--not only cuz his history, his  _life_  has been so thoroughly stripped of anything recognizably him, but because  _he_ , the Steve that's here right now because of goddamn  _magic_ , never did any of those things in the first place. 

He's filled out two enlistment forms so far; they'd both been stamped '4F'.

 

\---*---

 

"Baby," Bucky says, his voice low, soft, so soft. "Baby boy. Baby doll. I ain't remembering you wrong, am I? I don't even remember me, so how do I know what I know of you is real? I don't know anything, I don't even know this minute, this moment here right now with you ain't some dream I'm having, some hallucination I'm making up to get me through-"

His voice shakes. He gulps, hard, his whole throat shifts.

"Hell."

 

\---*---

 

Steve isn't sure what he said or how he said it that went and landed them here, but he's kicking himself for letting Bucky ramble on for as long as he has. "Gimme your hand." He holds his own out, palm up. "Gimme your hand, Buck."

 

\---*---

 

Bucky glances at him, and he's pretty sure more of the tiredness is showing on his face than he really wants. He's such a fucking mess. He hates the idea of Steve seeing him like this, but what else could he have done?

He sure as shit wasn't going to let Steve's new friends take him. Mad as Steve got when Bucky hauled him around, he tolerated strangers doing it even less. Agitating him might make his heart act up, or his stomach, or his chest. Even crazy, useless, half-dead Bucky was better than somebody else.

He sets his jaw a little, pushes his lips together until they pucker outward, and puts his hand into Steve's, steering with just his left.

 

\---*---

 

Steve laces their fingers together. "This ain't a dream. It's not, I'm right here, I'm not some figment of your imagination." He gives Buck's hand a squeeze. "You didn't make any of that up. You haven't said one thing yet that wasn't right, cuz you're right, Buck, you know me."

"We're  _Catholic_. Ma died when I was 19, when you was 20. I've been arrested more times than you, and you're dam right I made sure we made rent, same as you, and I'd pick up a little extra around the docks whenever I  _felt_  like it. I dunno what year they had you down as, but you were born in '17." He's just holding his hand now, grip lax and comfortable. "Art school only lasted a year, couldn't go back after ma passed. Did clerking, did teachin', did commissions and letterings for signs and deliveries for our whole damn street. I'd go on, but I bet I'm only tellin' ya shit you already  _know_." He squeezes his hand again then gives it a little yank, hoping it'll pull Buck's attention back to him long enough for the grundgy fucker to see the fond smirk playing on Steve's lips. "Have a little faith in yerself, why dontcha."

 

\---*---

 

He tries to speak, but he can't. Doesn't know what he'd say anyway. Tugs back, pulls Steve's hand all the way up to his mouth and kisses it. The bristles on his face aren't as sharp as they look, the beard's long enough that it's starting to get a little softer.

Less of a porcupine, more of a hairbrush.

He sighs when he lowers their hands but leaves their fingers tangled on the edge of Steve's seat.

"Y'always did have more sense than me," he managed, finally. Which is only true on long term stuff, but so what?

 

\---*---

 

"Good t'know it only takes 70 years of bullshit before you're able to admit it." 

Bucky hasn't taken his hand away, so Steve won't go doin' it either. Really, neither of them had much sense when left to their own devices. They worked better as a team. They needed each other, in more ways than one. Steve guesses Bucky did need him in some ways, but he certainly needs Steve _now_  and god, Steve can't wait to get out of this car. He wants to get Bucky cleaned up like he's 'sposed to be and then he wants to stay holed up away from this fucking impossible world for a while, just the two of them. He doubts Bucky's gonna complain. 

 

\---*---

 

It's quiet between them for a while. The buildings thin out a little. Bucky's safe house is in the suburbs. He wasn't awake enough, when the Soldier picked it out, to be properly appalled at how easy it was, as he moved, to hide in plain sight. Hydra was everywhere. They were wiped out in big enough chunks to keep Bucky indoors. In money. In clothes. In vehicles. In weapons.

He pulled into the driveway of a little condo with stairs from the carport to a door not visible from the road. The highlight of Hydra safe houses is the level of security. He could monitor every angle from inside, and changing the rigging so it isn't in their records was easy enough.

Though he's gotten the distinct impression they aren't looking for him very hard. He isn't leaving enough for them to track, when he can help it. 

He leads Steve into the kitchen. There's food. He's not sure what Steve can eat, what he should feed him. He's sure he's gotta be careful, but for himself, he just eats whatever is there. The inability to make decisions is limited to Bucky, and he knows it.

"Baby," he says. The pet names, the Soldier notes, are in part to display to Steve that Bucky is under strain. It's not just affection, it's damage control. He can work with that. "How's your gut?"

 

\---*---

 

He's not sure what he was expecting, but an apartment building wasn't it. He'd half expected Bucky to take them out to the backwoods where he'd reveal he'd been living like a fucking crazy hermit, cleaning his guns by lamp light and eating nothing but stray cats. This is definitely a surprise. It's almost like a  _person_  lives here. 

Steve leans on the counter, watching Buck move, hating the fact he's sure the nicknames aren't gonna stop any time soon. Nothing he can do but be here, be the one with their head screwed on right. He can do that, at least. He can play the straight man, be Abbott to Buck's Castello. 

"It's pissed," he says, honestly. It's been cramping worse and worse since he woke up this way, but he hadn't paid it much mind. Easy enough to ignore when all he's sposed to do is sit around and hold a conversation. "Could use a glass of water, to start."

 

\---*---

 

"Glass of water," Soldier repeats. Bucky is frantic about temperatures, but the Soldier ignores his wembling and fetches a glass. Fills it from the tap. It'll be cool, but not ice cold. Soldier's been starving before. Bucky relaxes a little. 

He gives Steve the water, rummages in the cabinet. Cereal should be okay. Dry, Steve struggles with milk, Bucky says. Soldier puts the box on the table. Instant soup is out, too much salt. Fruit? There's kiwi, kiwis are alright. Apples. He ate all the bananas, bananas don't keep. Yogurt? He relaxes a little.

"Put the cereal in the yogurt. S'Greek, shouldn't fuck your sugar too much. Lotsa protein, so eat it slow. Can make you a sandwich. Turkey on wheat, cheese and mustard if you want it."

 

\---*---

 

"My appetite ain't that big," he says as he pulls the cereal box to him. It's got a gloss-like finish to it, bright colors, high-rate print quality-- _Christ_. He doesn't know why that shakes him so bad, but he sets it aside and pointedly avoids looking at the labels on anything else. 

He goes slow at the water, at the cereal and yogurt. Keeps closing his eyes and hanging his head while he chews, breathing slow. Slow. Slow and steady and they'll make it to the finish line. Wherever the fuck that is. 

 

\---*---

 

"You familiar with disassociation?" Soldier asks, rearranging the cabinets. People watching him eat always made Steve fidget worse, Bucky says. "It's a trauma thing. You back out of your head so the bad shit that's happening to you is happening to somebody else. Like being your own stunt man."

Steve on the right, Soldier on the left. Left, left, left.

He starts, slowly, unbuttoning his coat.

"I think that's how I'm still in here. In my head. Just- stepped out, sometimes, while they were fucking me up. Sometimes I have trouble checking back in. The Soldier, he spoke Russian for a long time. Spoke a lot of languages, but Russian was the biggie. When I came up, they got meaner. The more English I spoke, the nastier they'd get, so."

 

\---*---

 

"So you'd go away," Steve says. "Or did you pick up Russian?" 

He's more familiar with this 'disassociation' thing than Bucky may suspect. Hell, he didn't know there was a name for it, but he's done it. Usually on days where his back or feet were killin' him but he still had places to be. He'd push through it until he reached a point he got numb and it was like he was just watching himself walk. Sometimes he didn't watch at all, and it'd be like one moment he'd be on the street and the next he'd be on the couch, flat locked up, keys already in the bowl, his laces half untied in his hands.

 

\---*---

 

"I remember Russian. I already had a little German, got better. Vietnamese. Portuguese. Arabic. Farsi, probably. I can do what he can do, usually, but it upsets me. He's cooler about it. Like an android in a sci fi novel, doesn't feel much. Sleeps with one eye open, more or less."

Shirt next. Both of them, over the back of the chair. Undershirt is short sleeve, but even up to the elbow... Damn thing's all metal. He keeps it faced away from Steve. Doesn't want to put him off his feed.

 

\---*---

 

Steve watches him strip out the corner of his eye, catching glimpses, seeing the glint of the kitchen lights off what has to be Buck's prosthetic. 

"So you and this Soldier--you just switch places?" Steve asks. He keeps his voice level, like that ain't scaring him one bit, like it wouldn't matter to him if it were true. It does, of course--Bucky should be  _himself_ , not have to construct this other him to just. Survive. The idea he's been fractured..."He come out any since I got here?"

 

\---*---

 

It ain't really like he ever leaves, the Soldier wants to say, but Bucky doesn't think that's gonna go over well. 

"Used to," Soldier clarifies. "Used to be all one or the other. Just him in here for years, with me in the back like a ghost. You wake me up. Even the other you, I get agitated, I wanna talk. He don't talk more than he has to. That's why my voice sounds like shit. Dozen words, he's done for the day."

Bucky wonders if Steve gets that. Gets how fucking important he is, breaking through seventy goddamn years of torture just- just saying his fucking name.

Soldier grunts.

"Anyway, can't turn him off. Ain't wise. Just tell him to look for them while I focus on you. He's good at what he does. Best goddamn sniper in the world, and hell of a brawler besides." 

 

\---*---

 

"Wouldn't ask you to," Steve says. "Turn him off, I mean. If he's helping you, I should be thanking him. Right? You needed someone watching your ass, and he was there, when I couldn't be."

He works his spoon through the yogurt, making it look like he's considering another bite when really, he's already made up his mind. He's just posturing. "I ain't a sniper and I can't take your place, but I hear talkin' I'm pretty good at." With that he sits back and pushes the food away from him because he just--he can't. He's taken maybe five spoonfuls and he's not sure if its him or the conversation, but he's just too nauseous to continue.

 

\---*---

 

Soldier scoops up the yogurt, glances over it. Takes foil from the drawer, covers the top, puts it in the fridge. Don't fuss, Bucky says, like he would anyway. None of his fucking business.

Rolls down the cereal bag, closes the box, puts it back in the cabinet, Steve side. Right side.

Checks the monitor over the microwave. Takes a glass from the cabinet. Pours himself half a glass of cranberry juice, thins it with ginger ale.

Scissors. Steve wanted to cut his hair. Soldier will have to sit still while Steve has the scissors. Anything vaguely medical- sharp, silver, close- Bucky starts in again with the goddamned screaming.

He's been quiet almost two whole minutes and didn't notice. Shit.

"Nothing to thank him for," he says. He's not sure how conversations work, just picks right back up like there wasn't a pause. "His ass, too." 

 

\---*---

 

Steve watches him, probably waits too long for some sort of reply, but Steve ain't thinking about conversation, he's thinking about how Buck moves, and how he's moving all wrong. He's getting longer glimpses at the arm, though, and after Bucky finds his voice again, Steve motions him over with a dip of his head.

"Its later. Lemme see." First the arm, then the beard, then...rest, maybe. They've no obligations to anyone outside these walls and maybe Buck'll get some well needed rest with Steve here. 

 

\---*---

 

Deep, bracing breath. Deep breath. Steadying, centering, meditative, deep breath. 

Is the Soldier bracing himself for inspection, or is Bucky postponing looking at a scar he's clawed at until it bled almost every time he's looked at it alone?

Soldier puffs himself up internally. Tells Bucky to stay quiet. Stay still. The weapon is not coming off. The scars go to the bone. They are part of them now. 

He peels out of his t-shirt and sits in the chair opposite Steve, eyes in the middle distance.

 

\---*---

 

Steve sucks in a breath, sucks his cheeks against his teeth. That's one angry scar. 

Christ, to be honest, he has a hard time looking at it. His eyes, his thoughts, they wanna skirt this whole thing, keep focusing elsewhere without his say-so. He finds himself studying Bucky's naked chest, instead, the unfamiliar thickness to it, all the muscle without an ounce of fat. "Well, y've certainly filled out, Buck," he says, feeling he should at least try to fill the silence. Try to put him at ease. 

 

\---*---

 

The Soldier crushes Bucky down hard, because Bucky wants to whine. 

"Lean season, winter," he says, and then realizes Steve will not understand his joke. 

Not that anyone ever does. 

Soldier is tired. 

"Doesn't hurt anymore. Much. Shave, you said?"

 

\---*---

 

"Not so fast." He hadn't even  _looked_  at it properly, yet. Which, arright, was his own damn fault, but he wants to go ahead and get this out of the way now. He holds out his hand and says, "lemme have a closer look."

 

\---*---

 

Soldier stares at his hand incomprehendingly for a beat. 

Bucky sobs. Soldier crams him in a crate, they don't so much as peep. 

Then the metal fingers, warm and startlingly gentle, come out and lay themselves across Steve's palm.

 

\---*---

 

Steve's lips part just a hair as he breathes in, the sensation not at all what he was expecting. He cradles the hand in his for a moment before slowly, gently tracing the groves on the back of it with his index finger. The craftsmanship is breathtaking. The articulation to the joints, the wrist, he can imagine how well it must move. He turns the hand slowly until he's holding it palm up in his opposite hand. He finds the way the fingers are constructed just...fascinating. He puts his finger tips in the center of his palm and looks up to Bucky. "Can you feel this?"

 

\---*---

 

Soldier didn't expect the intensity of the scrutiny, expected touching least of all. The weapon is what remains of their time as the asset, when Soldier was awake and Bucky was trying to never wake up again. Soldier doesn't know much about people, but Bucky hates it. Thought Steve would hate it. Considers himself disfigured. Wishes he'd bled out in the snow.

They're of two minds about that. Soldier has caused too many deaths to seek his own end. Kinesis keeps him moving, if nothing else. Bucky's belief in God has become as fragile as a soap bubble, but Soldier held the specter of suicidal mortal sin up whenever he was afraid Bucky might do something stupid.

The weapon doesn't bother him. It's a joke. He's the Soldier, how could he be the Soldier if he were unarmed?

"Yes. Not- temperature, but pressure. I wouldn't carry robins' eggs in it, but it ain't a cudgel."

 

\---*---

 

Steve's lips twist ever so slightly as he drops his eyes back to the prosthesis. He honestly doesnt know what to make of it--what he should make of it. He supposes he dont gotta make up his mind just yet. He should worry about familiarizing himself with this addition to Bucky's body, form an opinion only if he has to. Its part of Bucky. Its functional. It seems well made and well maintained. Now what he hasnt seen is it working in motion--

"When you picked me up earlier, parts of it were moving--" which seems fucking obvious when he goes and says it. "Now dont get smart, I'd just like to know which parts could pinch if I aint careful." Not all the grooves seem wide enough to do much damage but some--and better safe than sorry.

 

\---*---

 

Soldier considers the question. He's careful in thinking on it, and makes sure to convey that with his face somehow, brow furrowing, eyes lifting off in the distance over Steve's head.

"Mostly slides when it's adjusting for-" he pauses. "Torque? Tension? Strength, more or less. It ain't decorative. Can get kinda warm, too."

He thinks a little more, settles on an answer. "Outer foream, elbow. Fingers work smoother than you'd think, haven't caught them on much, but they ain't gentle."

 

\---*---

 

Steve turns him by the wrist to look at that outer forearm, that elbow, and then up over his bicep, or rather the molding shaped to imitate a bicep. He finds it odd that they--whoever they may be--went to such lengths to give it the shape of an arm and yet, and yet the shape seems entirely separate from the movement. Bucky's new arm has the rise and fall of muscles that aren't there, uses sheets of metal to imply the form without using that form for its function. The breaks in the plating seems to be what lets Bucky twist, move, grab and flex. Steve finds the disconnect interesting if somewhat absurd. Why make it look like an arm at all?

He gives Bucky's hand a squeeze and lets it go. "Well, it certainly is something."

 

\---*---

 

"It ain't normal," Soldier says, startling himself by how quickly he says it. He's not sure why he cares. Bucky doesn't, Bucky just hates it, just wants it off. 

"There's been-" he pauses. Context? Why does context matter?

"Tech on prosthetics is advancing pretty quick nowadays, mostly for soldiers."

There are wars. Wars every week. Wars every day. On the books and off of them, and Soldier's been in most of them, that's why he speaks so many languages, Bucky's tired, Bucky's tired, Soldier wouldn't know what to do with peace if he could get it. 

"This is better than the best there is. It's illegal. It's inhumane, medically unsound. Most folks missing as much arm have a working pincer they gotta take off every night."

His fingers curl, uncurl. Makes a fist. He rotates his wrist, demonstrates range of motion.

"Barnes hates it."

He doesn't realize he's slipped.

 

\---*---

 

Something in Steve pinches, sharp and unyielding, in his chest when Bucky--or hell, probably the other guy--drops into third person. 

"...Does it hurt?" 'Inhumane' and 'medically unsound' have to make him wonder. His eyes drift to the ring of scar tissue that acts as a buffer between Bucky's chest and the metal of his shoulder.

 

\---*---

 

"Relative, ain't it?" Soldier watches the shifting plates as he extends it, pulls it back. Does a bicep curl, splays his fingers. The armor moving makes it look unnatural, and it's a little stiff, but it's pretty quick.

"Scale of one to ten, pneumonia to kill-me-now? It's about a four. But it's been four so long that four is one."

 

\---*---

 

Steve watches, listens, face neutral all the way through. He knows what Bucky's talking about--if this is Bucky--and he wishes it werent something they shared. He wishes it were just his to know. 

"Its a functional arm. Keeps you from being a cripple. Ain't no point hating it." 

If Bucky wanted coddling he brought home the wrong guy. Steve's all about the practical, about shifting your thinking as close to productive as it'll go, because its a waste of time to do otherwise--not just your time but everyone else's. He should know; he's got plenty of reasons to wallow, but he's also got bills to pay and places to be and would much rather find ways to be useful than sit around feeling sorry for himself that his life ain't easier. 

He hates that Bucky has to learn this. 

 

\---*---

 

Soldier lifts his eyes from his arm to Steve's face. His head tilts, just a tick, and the slight frown he's been wearing since his shirt came off relaxes.

He taps the arm, below the shoulder, well into the bicep. It goes into his chest, the plating, so new techs, new handlers, they always need it explained.

He doesn't verbalize- this is where the bone stops, or would stop if they left it alone- but he suspects Steve will understand.

He draws his middle finger from the shoulder joint, past the scar's jagged edge, to the middle of his sternum.

"You have no idea how full of machinery I am," Soldier says, deadpan, hitching his voice on the polysyllables.

It's not quite as good a Tik-tok impression as Bucky would have done for Jackie. Tik-tok never sounded quite so darkly amused by himself.

 

\---*---

 

Steve's eyes narrow then drop. He shifts in his chair until he's set his flat feet solidly on the ground and squares his shoulders, like he's gearing up to take a blow.

"Okay, which one am I talking to?" he asks, eyes darting back up to Bucky--not-Bucky, whatever--the second the last syllable has left his mouth. His gaze is sharp and betrays his annoyance because he's got a feeling they've been doing this to him all day, slipping in and out with no fucking intention of letting him in the know. When he drops his eyes again, like he does when he's saying something he knows the other person won't like, they go to the arm. "I thought I was talking to the other guy, but then you go and quote Baum and I ain't so sure, but I guess wouldn't know how it works in there." Eyes up again, then away to the left, just by his head this time. "Get the feelin' no one wants me to know, and that's just not gonna work out. That's gonna be a problem." He's done, so his eyes settle into Bucky's--the other man's--again and hold them good and proper because he ain't joshin' and he won't let himself be led on, not when all it'll do is keep him from the one job he's got left, which is taking care of Bucky. 

Y'don't hide symptoms. Bucky's barked that at him all through their teens and it took years to stick, but its a fucking  _rule_  now, ain't it? And fair's fair. How the fuck is he supposed to help if he don't know what the fuck it is he's dealing with? 

 

\---*---

 

Soldier's on his own. Arm is out. Report and maintenance. Bucky doesn't. Bucky can't.

He's very quiet. There's an uncertainty in his voice, his eyes are sharply focused, but on Steve's ear, not his face. He doesn't want to get hit.

He's been out for so long. Long enough to get warm. Long enough for Bucky to wake up.

"Intent was not deception," he says. "Barnes attempted to convey shared consciousness, but wea- arm maintenance is beyond his capacity. He panicked, cut out. He will come back. Winter Soldier was attempting to use long term memory data to provide frame of reference. There is no problem."

The last part is not a statement. It's a plea. He's not sure if he's afraid Steve will hurt him, leave him or mistrust him, but he doesn't like any of those options. Not one bit.

 

\---*---

 

Steve very slowly sits back, breathing in, breathing out. Doesn't scream or curse. Doesn't un-ball his fits because he  _needs_  the feel of his nails biting into his palm right now he needs  _something_  if he's gonna sit here and pretend this isn't fucked six ways to Sunday and probably far, far above his pay-grade. 

"This how you normally sound, without...'long term memory data'?" He doesn't see the fear right away because no one's afraid of him when they need to be, no one as big as Bucky for sure. "I need to know if this is gonna work."

 

\---*---

 

"Speaking beyond mission reports is not required," Soldier says, swallowing afterward. "Speaking is not the asset's function. The asset is not-"

His breathing hitches. It's wrong. He's doing it wrong. He wants to quote again, but that's wrong, isn't it?

"I have three functions," he paraphrases. "I plan, I attack, I report. I can only do what I am wound up to do. I have no speech pattern. I am reporting. I report. Barnes did not issue specific orders. Barnes left the key with you. I plan: you will be safe. I attack: I will keep you safe. I report: I will answer any questions you ask. I am cooperating."

 

\---*---

 

"You are," Steve says. "Yeah, you--you are." 

He needs a minute. This is...

Its fucking terrifying. Its terrifying and Steve feels like he can't breathe around the horror of what's been done to his friend, this splintering, this--

But he has to breathe, so he does. He looks at his glass, drains the last of the water, then gets up to refill his glass just. Needing something to do that isn't _sitting here_ , looking at the broken thing that's been made of his best friend. His hands are shaking but he pretends they aren't. He tries to get his thoughts together, tries to figure out how to respond to all of this. Goes over what the guy said in Bucky's voice with Bucky's fucking face and Bucky's fucking body. 

"Am I helping you, too?" is what he settles on. He's not ready to turn around--maybe if he doesn't see him, maybe it won't. It. "I don't. I don't want you pretending to be Bucky, when you're not, but you're  _part'_ a him and you look after him, I--I guess. Are you taking my help or should I just..." he trails off because to be honest, he ain't sure he can keep his big trap shut. Not about shit like this, not for long.

 

\---*---

 

There's a long pause.

"I'm sorry," Soldier says, and he means it. "The question does not- I don't understand the question. I'm sorry. Helping me does not-"

It doesn't make sense. Helping him how? They are not on an offensive mission. He does not require reinforcement.

"Please don't suppress your agitation to the detriment of your health. I cannot keep you safe if you do not cooperate. I need to perform my functions. I report: I will answer any questions that you ask. Please do not mistrust me, punish me or leave me. I'm sorry. I'm trying. Speaking is not the assset's function. I'm sorry. I'm trying."

Fuck, he's repeating now. That's wrong, he knows that's wrong. He almost misses the goddamned chair over this uncertainty.

Almost. Not really. No. Not at all.

 

\---*---

 

Steve sets down the glass as he turns. "Its okay," he says, and it is, but its not, but fuck things need to be simple for two seconds. His voice has gone tight because its trying to stick in his throat but he won't let it. His eyes, at least, are gentle. "Its okay." He crosses back to the table, one hand out like he's trying to soothe some frightened animal. 

"I won't mistrust you, or punish you, or leave you," he says. "You wanna--you wanna talk about functions? That last one goes against mine. I don't know you all that well yet, but you're stuck with me, alright? You're stuck with Barnes, you're stuck with me, we're a package deal. I'm gonna. I'm gonna assume you're being as honest as you can, so no, no mistrust, and I ain't--" Mary have mercy, he's shaking over this. "I  _wont_  punish you. Not for talking. Reporting. Whatever." 

 

\---*---

 

He blinks, and the tears roll fat and hot down his cheeks, but he's not crying, and his chest stops aching with terror.

Soldier releases a deep, shaky breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"I'm sorry. There are no electroshock chairs here. We destroy them, when we find them, but we have nightmares. There are no restraints here. We destroy them, when we find them, but we have nightmares. There is no cryopod here. We destroy them, when we find them, but we have nightmares. I have been awake for fifty-two hours. We have not been out of cryonic storage for this length of time, ever. We do not know how long we can go without sleep."

He relaxes even more as he leans, very hesitantly, toward Steve's hand.

"Our current record for continuous activity without sleep is sixty hours. We were interrupted in the exercise by injuries. We slept for two days. Bucky woke up first."

  

\---*---

 

Fuck.  _Fuck_. 

Steve hesitates at first, but then Buc--the other is leaning towards him and he steps in, takes his cheek, starts wiping the tears away. "The shave can wait. Let's. Let's get you two to bed, huh?" 

 

\---*---

 

"It isn't immediately necessary," Soldier protests, but it's mostly perfunctory, and he shies back and forth just a little like a stray dog before closing his eyes and letting Steve's hand touch as much of his face as he likes.

Soldier ain't the cuddlebug Bucky always was, but it's more because he's been kicked so much than because his teeth are bared.

"I should put on a clean shirt. I can wash your clothes. I will answer any questions you have."

 

\---*---

 

Steve's fingers are gentle as he wipes the tears from under his eyes and cheeks. His own throat tightens, but he draws in a sharp breath through the nose and squares his shoulders again. None'a that now. This ain't about him. "Clean shirt, maybe wash up a little," Steve says, "but then yer givin' sleep a chance. You--I mean, Buck, he. He always slept better with a body against him, and I've got nowhere else to be. Could probably use a nap, myself, and I'd rather not do it alone."

 

\---*---

 

"I do not recall," Soldier sighs. "I will try. The master bedroom has what I need to monitor the house. The bed is very comfortable. We will go when you are ready."

 

\---*---

 

"C'mon," he says, dropping his hand to pat at his flesh shoulder. "Show me the washroom first."

 

\---*---

 

Soldier stands up slow and with a little stretch of his leg like Bucky getting off a stiff church pew with a cramp. The carpets are so thick and plush, moving makes no sound.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Does Everything but Live](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7064095) by [zetsubonna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubonna/pseuds/zetsubonna)




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